Page 69
Story: Perfect on Paper
I took a few minutes to compose a text.
I am so, so sorry. Please don’t take me running away badly. I just need some time to think. I’ll message you soon, okay?
A few minutes later, during which I paced about three full laps of the parking lot, I got a response.
It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.
I let out a sigh of relief. Okay. This was okay. It was fine. Fine was good.
Okay.
Where was Ainsley?
I chewed on my finger. I had to talk to someone now.Now.
So, I dialed Brooke’s number.
She picked up on the fourth ring. “Hey, what’s up?”
Down the far end of the street, I could make out Ainsley’s car pulling up at a red light.
I opened my mouth to reply to Brooke. To saynothing much. To say everything had changed. To say I didn’t know what to do.
But instead of speaking, I burst into tears.
FIFTEEN
Self-Analysis:
Darcy Phillips
Did my parents fail to respond to my crying as an infant? Probably. I remember whenHow I Met Your Motherwas on, Mom and Dad would flat-out refuse to let me talk as a kid. I had to go to my room. Well, now look, you guys made me terrified of vulnerability,thanks a lot!Assholes.
I do start feeling panicky when I think someone wants to kiss me. Remember Sara in eighth grade? If she’d tried, I might have bitten her tongue off I was so stressed out. All because my parents wouldn’t taketwo secondsaway from watching their stupid sitcom to parent me my whole infancy. Wow. Really, it’s a miracle I survived this long.
Has a fearful avoidant attachment style?
Probably needs therapy.
Definitely needs a hug.
Ainsley knocked on the door and poked her head around the gap. “Want some Phish Food?”
I met her eyes with a pitiful frown and pressed my hands together, waving them like a fish swimming, like we’d done as kids. She rushed in with a mostly full pint, sat cross-legged on the bed, and handed me a spoon. Mom, presumably, was grading papers or something. She hadn’t noticed me holing up in my room to mope, in any case. She hadn’t even noticed I hadn’t grabbed any leftover casserole from the fridge for dinner.
While I dug through for a chunk of marshmallow fluff, Ainsley glanced at my notebook. “You did a profile on yourself?” she asked, reaching for it.
I nodded and stuffed an overloaded spoon of ice cream in my mouth. “I’ve been reflecting,” I said through a mouthful of goo.
“I can see that,” she said, scanning through the words. “Theywereassholes aboutHow I Met Your Mother.”
“Right?” I asked, passing her the pint. “And now I’m damaged. Which isgreat.”
“You should sue,” she agreed, then bit her tongue in a goofy smile. “So, explain this one to me?”
“It’s kind of like a mixture between anxious and dismissive-avoidant attachment,” I said. “It’s rare.”
“Likeyou!”
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